Alien vs Predator: Extinction
by Hell-on-Training-Wheels
Summary: Earthrealm and Outworld will have to set aside old rivalries and form new alliances if they hope to save their worlds from complete annihilation. ((AvP/MKX Crossover)) ((Rated T for gore, violence and language))
1. Cowboys vs Aliens

**A/N:** For those of you that follow some of my past stories, I'm sure you have noticed that _Survival of the Fittest 2: Game Reserve_ , is no longer available for viewing. I apologize for deleting it without proper warning, but I came to a realization when I was writing it and re-reading it: this was not what I had pictured in my head when I first started it. I had a concept, and I felt that I was not pulling off that concept to the best of my abilities. I felt that it could be better.

This is in no way a sequel to _Survival of the Fittest_ , its going to be its own story even though it features Xenos and Yautja (Alien and Pred)

I came up with this idea while looking at Alien and Triborg's endings. I will also be making references to Prometheus, both AvP films, MK9 and other sources. This is going to be a long story, but on the whole, I feel this is much better for what I expect out of myself, and will also being respectful to the source material.

* * *

 **Chapter 1  
** **Cowboys and Aliens**

* * *

 **Colorado**  
 **1868**

There was always serene quietness at night, but it never did help coax his excited, sundry thoughts away and allow him to sleep. There was no way that they 7-year old could sleep, regardless of the tiring day they had endured; his mind wandered elsewhere and evaded the sandman's dust. The tranquil nothingness was only disturbed by a small snore from Abraham, who slept on the ground beside him and the distant lonely cry of a coyote. Aaron, the adopted son of the once reclusive stagecoach driver, turned his head towards his surrogate father. Laying on his back, with only a weathered wool blanket to sleep upon, the young blonde haired boy smiled as he Abraham muttered something incoherent from beneath the brim black hat that covered his eyes from the campfire light.

The lean muscled man dressed in black, smacked his lips as he laid in his unconscious stupor. Aaron also noticed the tips of his fingers curl softly around the handle of the Griswold revolver tucked inside the holster under his duster and above his black and speckled gray vest. It was the comforting norm for the grizzled dark haired man, like a babe that would clutch a toy sleeping in its crib. Aaron was comforted seeing his arm draped across his chest, ready to draw if something nefarious came looking for a snack, or if any sons-of-bitches wanted what they had. His faith in Abraham to protect him was unquestionable after the many times he demonstrated it when bandits and predators slithered into their camp.

They wouldn't have to worry about any of that after tomorrow. Aaron smiled as he looked up at the distant alabaster pinpricks in the endless obsidian curtain above their heads. The mountain pines tops swayed with the wind, trying to obscure his vision, but Aaron still beamed a smile as he counted the stars and thought about the gold in the creek waiting for both the man and boy to pluck. The camp didn't even have a name yet, but from what Abraham had told him, 'Tincup' was its unofficial moniker. Named after the random stroke of luck in honor of the man that fished his cup into the river for a drink to quench his thirst, and instead found it heightened when he saw fortune at the bottom of his cup.

 _"It won't be any different from Hays."_ Abraham's voice reminded him, and he knew he was right. Just like the dangerous cow town, they would have to watch their step and who they made acquaintances. Aaron still couldn't have been more excited. Just another few miles and they be richer than a new whore after her first day. Abraham grunted dubiously every time that Aaron voiced it, but he still had faith they would come across a bonanza. After all, they had traveled all this way.

The fire was beginning to die, but the boy wasn't up to the task of placing another long on the pile just yet. Air puffed from their two horses snouts nearby, and Aaron glanced their way as his buckskin, Bohannon, flapped his ears and flicked away mosquitoes. The black and white paint, who Abraham affectingly dubbed 'Lucifer' after breaking him in, shook his head and sent his ebony hair flapping gently like an ocean wave.

Eventually, his groin ached and with a tired groan, he rolled himself up and walked away from the fire, passed by the hatchet buried in the stump, and into the columns of pine trees to take care of his business. His shoes snapped twigs and tripped over tree roots as he blindly fumbled in the dark. With the glow of the fire at his back and the heat it provided departing him, Aaron urinated as he yawned and craned his chin up to look through the canopy of trees and searched for a constellation.

Something warm kissed his cheek, and he lifted his hand and tapped his fingers against his skin. At first, he thought it was a raindrop, but as he pulled his fingers away, he felt his eyebrows furrow as he rubbed the sticky, substance between his small digits. The 7-year old's blue eyes looked back up at the trees before he shrugged it off.

It was probably tree sap.

He buttoned his pants and rubbed the sap against his pant leg. It clung to his brown pants and with a small tug, it protested and remained glued to his pants before he gave it an even harder tug with a small, annoyed grunt.

Bohannon stomped his hooves and let out a squeal. Not even a second passed before Lucifer did the same and huffed. It carried on, their distress growing louder as their feet drummed nervously as Aaron observed anxiously from behind the pines. He could see the campfire through the fenced wall of trees and heard Abraham stir awake and rise to his feet.

The ex-coach driver noticed the empty blanket and began to look for Aaron as he unholstered his revolver. Aaron stepped forward, revealing himself and attempted to call out for him before Abraham spotted him.

His black shoulder length hair, raked with streaks of gray, flipped into his face when he heard the boy's footsteps in the dark. With wide, sea green eyes pointed in his direction, Abraham slapped his hand down, as if striking an invisible table-top— silently ordering him to get down and hide. There was terror under his apprehension, and Aaron's blood ran cold just looking at Abraham's face. It had a to be a bear. He knew Abraham was terrified of them after barely escaping one that claimed his horse instead of him long before he met the boy.

The boy hesitated and whimpered; he was glad the horses drowned it out because he felt pathetic for doing so. Crawling on his hands and knees, he wiggled his way quietly under the umbrella of pine needles and branches that hung low to the ground. Hiding behind a large pine, he huddled as much as he could to merge with the tree's trunk.

He held his breath as he pressed his ear against the trunk but still dared a peak around the base. Abraham barked at the horses to keep quiet, but they still bucked to get free of the line tied between two trunks. It didn't take long, and the rope finally snapped with their combined strength. Abraham cursed as they fled into the woods and deserted them to whatever spooked them.

Aaron had always found it ironic how much he had never gotten along with his horse since they were almost identical in personalities: stubborn, robust and keen to their surroundings. Unlike Lucifer, however, Abraham was not as yellow-bellied and stood his ground even though Aaron could tell he was nervous about whatever intruder the dark hid.

Ducking back behind the tree, the boy held his breath, trying to listen and only exhaled when his lungs filled with pain. Each time, he heard his own breath tremble with trepidation. He knew bears were dangerous— especially a starving bear. For a moment, he looked up at the branches of the pine tree he was hiding under. He could reach the nearest one and climb to the top if he wanted to, but he didn't dare want to make any noise that would bring a bear his way.

Aaron had his Philly Derringer in his pants pocket, but he was smart enough to know that the small caliber would do nothing but tickle a charging hungry bear. There was the hatchet, and Abe's Winchester but both of them may as well of been the same distance from San Francisco to Florida.

A frown weighed down the small boy's face.

 _Abraham suppose' ta take me to Florida…_ he recalled solemnly. _He promised he would show me where he saw that cottonmouth._

The sound of gunfire roused the boy violently from his melancholy thoughts.

"Get outta here!" Abraham screamed furiously at the trees. "Or I'll pump ya so full of lead that you'll have folks prospectin' your carcass for spare ammunition!"

Abraham let out another shot into the air from his revolver as he quietly tip-toed towards the Winchester on the ground next to his blanket. There was only silence, except for the crackling fire that played tricks on both of their minds. Every time a coal popped, they whirled towards the noise believing it was the snap of a stick.

Aaron could hear his surrogate father's heavy breathing, and it only continued to quicken the more the seconds ticked slowly away.

Then, there was nothing but the wail of banshees that pierced the night.

Aaron felt a tear run down his cheek as he heard the horses bawl in agony, he wasn't sure which one, or if it was both, but whatever was ripping the horse to shreds, screeched the most piercing cry he had ever heard.

Once in Hays, while he had been attending school, he remembered when the teacher had raked her nails against the blackboard to get their attention. This loud, horrendous screech made her nails seem like they had been made of butter that day. Aaron slapped his hands over his ears, trying to shield out the sound. Eventually, he heard the horses stop, but the screeching continued and he felt as if his ears were going to burst.

Then silence once more and as much as he hated to admit it, it was more dreadful than hearing the horses die. What followed, only picked up the speed of his heart and nailed him still to the cold ground of the mountain.

The boy heard hissing above them, far away from his tree but somewhere in Abraham's direction. Aaron thought it was a mountain lion at first, but there was something unnaturally horrendous about its hiss. The noise moved around, almost like it was leaping from tree to tree.

"What the hell are you…?" he heard Abraham fearfully ask under his breath. Aaron was thinking almost the same thing. He didn't know much about bears even though he had seen them from a distance from time to time, but he had a sinking gut feeling that it wasn't a bear. Now, he wished it had been.

The next thing he knew, Abraham was running to the tree he was hiding behind. His brim hat pushed aside the needles that parachuted around the boy, so only his head poked through.

"Aaron. Climb the tree," he ordered. It sent a shiver down the boy's spine when he saw how pale white Abraham was. All he could do was stammer out an objection, but Abraham cut him off.

"I'll draw it away, get in the tree and hide until I—

Aaron screamed in fear the same time Abraham cried out in surprise, dropped his Winchester and Griswold and instinctively grabbed the only thing within reach.

The young boy held on to Abraham's free hand as he hugged the tree with his arm like a grappling hook. The scales of the pine tree bit through his clothes and scratched his flesh, but he held on with all his might as Abraham's palm began to slip from his. Whatever had been in the trees, had latched onto the man's legs and was trying to drag him to a painful oblivion.

Abraham let out a bloodcurdling scream as something hissed, screeched and Aaron heard something wet hit the forest floor. He couldn't see what it was, but knew it was biting and ripping flesh from Abraham's legs just like it had done to the horses. Terror ran through every vein in the boy's body as Aaron crushed his grip tighter the same time Abraham purposely tried to slip from Aaron's.

Tears ran hot down his face as Abraham's face twisted into an apologetic, but heart-wrenching grimace before he yowled in pain and was pulled from Aaron's hand at last.

He heard him cry out to him as his voice faded into the dark: "RUN AARON!"

He didn't move a muscle; he felt physically crippled as he hugged the tree trunk with both arms and cried into the bark. Abraham's voice tapered away, but his grunts and shouts of pain echoed all around him like ghosts in a catacomb.

Then when he was certain that he was miserably alone, he peeled his face from the tree.

How wrong he was.

Even with the tree blocking his vision, and the branches that reached towards the ground like skeletal arms, he heard the animalistic growl and scratch. It was soft, but feral almost as if the beast couldn't help making the noise knowing that there was still prey around to hunt.

Aaron couldn't move, couldn't do anything without attracting its presence to him, and couldn't believe that Abraham was dead. He had let him go and guilt settled inside him like a heavy stone. All he could do was sit behind the trunk of the tree and cry.

Too afraid to run like Abraham had told him to do.

Too afraid to pick up the Griswold that lay by his feet and fight.

Too afraid to move…

Too afraid to breath…

Too afraid to do anything but wait for it to kill him…

The blonde boy's lips trembled with utter trepidation, and he immediately scuttled backwards like a crab when he saw the bony obsidian tail drop into view and curl its speared end like a cat. His hands managed to grab Abraham's revolver — he didn't even know how he had managed to since his mind gave him no command to do so.

Beyond the evergreen needles obscuring his view, he watched as saliva poured down to the ground like raindrops rolling off a roof's shingle. The tail disappeared from sight and all the heard, besides his blood pounding in his ears, was nails scratching against the bark, branches colliding together and then nothing but a heavy thud behind him. His face went pale, and he was certain if he hadn't of gone to the bathroom earlier, he would have wet his pants now.

Hot breath hit his neck from behind, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand. Aaron began to sob as he heard the breathy hiss grow closer to the back of his naked neck and felt the creature salivating on him and wetting the collar of his brown coat.

Aaron couldn't look, didn't want to look even though a voice in the back of his head suggested he should at least get a look at what was about to kill him. Its presence shadowed over him like a turbulent thunder cloud blotting out any hope for survival. Its teeth clacked loudly from behind, and all he could do was whimper and sob as he waited for the inevitable death blow that was taking an eternity to arrive.

His ears were filled with a metallic snap, almost akin to the sound of a bullwhip cracking, and then followed a horrible screech that cut loudly in his ears. Aaron flinched and screamed while he waited for claws, but instead of grappling at Aaron's flesh, he dared a peek as he whirled around to see the most grotesque black monster he had ever seen digging its hands into the ground and bucking like a lassoed cow.

It was even more undeniably terrifying than he could have ever pictured and all he wanted to do was to turn his eyes away and burn the image of the malignant creature forever from his thoughts. Still, all he could do was stare in shock as it clawed hysterically while trying to gain traction on the mountain soil and free itself from the silver, barbed rope that wrapped around its emaciated-looking torso. Even though it was the most frightful animal he had ever seen, Aaron's first comparison was that it looked like a man except for the long, smooth elongated head, the jagged curves and spikes that armored almost its entire body, and the bony tail that thrashed around wildly.

It squealed in angry protest as it was pulled back towards the woods, helpless against the rope that dangled in the air. Aaron squinted his eyes in the darkness as it continued to be hauled backwards like a fish on a line. Unfortunately, the blackness of the night and the demon on the leash flailing around hid any glimpse he could get at what had just saved his life.

Still hiding under the parasol of pine needles and branches, he watched as it was dragged ten feet away from him and cringed in surprise when it opened its large, mouth at him and then went instantly quiet when the length of a spear came out its mouth and the tip buried itself in the soil like a railroad spike. It stilled after it quivered its last bits of life out, and then slumped to the ground as the spear was pulled from its head.

Aaron blinked and breathed heavily as he heard a sickening sizzle coming from the fresh corpse and steam rise from the juniper colored blood that began to soak the ground. His eyes lifted up, and his breath caught in his throat, strangling him as he had trouble comprehending what he was seeing.

The handle of a silver whip hovered at least 5 feet over the ground, held by the air while the spear that had just killed the serpent-like beast was standing upright like a light pole. There was a faint crackle of electricity, but it was almost more muffled than sharp, and it boomed lightly in the air around the weapons. Materializing from a ripple of blue and white lines of lightning, another monster stood before him.

A frightful gasp escaped from his lips as he took in the tall, imposing and deadly looking muscled man. He could feel its eyes on him through the slits of the gray mask that covered his face between the massive collection of long black dreadlocks. Aaron's eyes landed on the strange marking on the middle of its helmet: A series of lines that while not connected, resembled a pitchfork with the prongs spread wider apart. He would have thought maybe he was the devil, if it wasn't for the other lines at the base of the line that curved down on both sides of the line; like a mirror image of crescent moons. Besides the mask's carved drawing, the mask itself was almost like it was all for show—almost as if was intentional to look like a human face despite the broad, smooth plating to big for any man's face. Even though its skin was beige, he knew it was as human as the dead dragon by its feet. Its skin was speckled with dark brown spots, and it reminded Aaron of a rattlesnake. He also stood tall as a horse as well, and while lean looked just as strong as either Bohannon or Lucifer.

It was also barely wore anything to cover his body except for a leather kilt with a metal codpiece the same color as the scalloped layers of shoulder armor, shin guards, clawed sandals, and heavy gauntlets on both wrists. It also surprised the young boy, when he saw something familiar but still very much alien strapped to his plated shoulder. There was a chubby, strange gun that sat on a perch like a parrot on a pirate's shoulder. It was an odd placement for a weapon, and it almost looked innocent seated still on his massive shoulder. Aaron knew better than to let his guard down and question the lethality of the device although it was stationary. It wouldn't be a part of his arsenal if it weren't.

He looked like some mythological warrior, bound to protect the entrance of some archaic temple that he had traveled far away from. Wherever it had come from, he wished it would return there. However, there was a small sense of gratitude for it even though suspicion and unease pricked at his skin. It had saved his life, and even if he didn't know why, seemed less eager to kill him as the other one had been.

Still, it was no comfort to him because there was no way to discern if the thing was thinking about killing him or sparing him. Aaron felt a shiver travel down his spine like a cold blade's tip as his eyes landed on the clean, ivory skulls of small animals he didn't recognize hanging on a sash over his torso… and gasped quietly in fear at the jawless human skulls attached to a belt on his hips.

A strange clicking, like the sound of bones knocking rapidly together, came from him as it cocked its head to the side at him; studying him like a curious predator sniffing an unfamiliar animal. He lashed his whip once, almost with an aloof flick of his wrist and then twirled the spear as well. Tiny dots melted into the bark of nearby trees from the blood he flicked from both weapons. It took him a moment, but then his jaw slacked when he finally realized that the obsidian demon's blood, was acidic. Even lifeless, it was still deadly to go near.

The reptilian humanoid still held his weapons even as he circled the body and sauntered over to where Aaron was. He gulped and began to move backwards until his back hit the tree. Panic caught in his throat as he looked at both of the savage looking instruments and couldn't help but fearfully wonder which one would be used on him.

Metal slid against metal in a smooth, quick _'schlik'_ as his spear detracted into the size of a slender club.

 _Guess it was going to be the whip._ Aaron exhaled heavily.

His clawed feet stomped towards the tree; he walked casually, but his bulky build still made tremors with each step. As he approached, and the boy's heart pounded like a drum against his ribcage, he began to fondle Abraham's heavy gun with clammy hands and raised its barrel to point at the hulking figure.

For his size, Aaron would have never have even thought for a second it was capable of moving with such incredible speed. He didn't even know he had lunged at him until he felt a hot, scaly hand wrap around his wrist, pull him free of the safety of the tree and lift him high over his its massive head.

With his wrist crushed and the gun pointed straight towards the stars, Aaron winched in pain and began to worm and twist like a rabbit in a snare. He stared down at the emotionless slate colored mask beneath him almost desperately— silently begging him to let him live as he kicked his dangling feet high above the ground.

As his arm flared in pain, threatening to pop from his socket at any moment, Aaron was incredibly aware of the precarious situation he was in. The way he had the gun pointed up, out of the path of fire, in no way felt as if it was defending itself from whatever harm Aaron could have done; the boy was nothing but a bug against a boot. Him holding him high above the ground was only a minuscule example of the strength he truly possessed— and all he was doing was just holding him. Aaron had no doubt he could have crushed his bones into dust with a single squeeze of his clawed hand.

The 7-year old moaned in pain, his shoulder on fire, but still he held him high in the air by his arm…

Until they both heard the screeching.

His dreadlocks flipped to the side, towards the source of the noise and with a flick of his wrist, he tossed the boy away; letting him fall carelessly to the hard, unforgiving soil.

Aaron grunted in pain as he hit the dirt on his side, his ribs feeling as if he had just been heeled by a mule, but miraculously managed to hold on to Abraham's revolver. Blinking back tears of pain, he looked up to see three more of the identical black demons come forth through the darkness.

Orange flames illuminated their glossy sides as they stalked from the trees, and crossed the threshold of Abraham and Aaron's camp. They gnashed their teeth and dripped constant rivulets of saliva from their vicious pointed teeth as they crawled on all fours towards the boy and the armored humanoid.

Aaron rolled to his rear and held the gun in both hands out in front of him as a barbarous and fierce roar came from muscled alien biped. With his arms spread wide, and his dreadlocks subtly flared out like a lion's mane, he cracked his cruel metal bullwhip in a display of aggression as he stormed near them, his muscles tensed with readiness.

The boy looked up in shocked awe at the behemoth. Aaron had been terrified to the core when he saw more demons approach from the darkness, but this false man, didn't show an ounce of fear, and instead was filled with intrepid adrenaline and made the clicking sound again — this time faster and more pitched. He was elated facing death, and Aaron had never in his life seen such morbid delight and anticipation. If this indomitable wall of muscle had a language, Aaron doubted that the word _'fear'_ was even apart of their vocabulary.

One of them charged with ferocious and ravenous speed and only stopped when the whip wrapped around its bony neck. The brute tugged the barbed lash and seemingly without effort, ripped it's head from its shoulders. The head rolled across the ground until it stopped inside of the flames of the dying campfire.

As the other two black dragons neared them, Aaron noticed the small metal cannon on his shoulder whirr to life the same time three red dots appeared on the oblong head of the closest inky demon. The gun, as if with a mind of its own, repositioned itself and aimed as it began to charge with the speed of a mountain lion.

A ball exploded from the gun and flew towards it in a tumbling snowball made of lightning. However, the creature ducked out of the way in time, and the tree behind him obliterated into splinters.

Another electric bullet escaped from the shoulder gun, and as before, missed when the dragon rolled out of its path. The muscled man seemed to have anticipated it would steer out of the way because the next thing Aaron saw was a yellow geyser of blood erupting out of its long head. Broken pieces of blood coated skull rained around the camp before the creature's body slumped to the ground.

Aaron noticed that the last dragon had taken notice of him, crouched low at him and lowered his head in his direction with a scowl. His eyes widened in fear as it began to stalk towards him before sprinting at him with a screech.

Aaron raised Abraham's heavy revolver and fired as he began to shovel his heels into the ground, and tried crawling away as it closed in on him. The child began to mewl in fear, even as the bullets hit the tubular head and caused the monster to shriek in agony and flinch in pain. Abraham's revolver bucked wildly in his hand with each recoil, sending blunt pain across his wrists and shoulders as he held the gun in both hands.

Although wounded in the head, it still came at him with a horrible snarl, and he knew he only had seconds to live before its claws dug into his throat. However, Aaron hadn't been the only one to notice it had locked on a different target.

The demon screeched when the beige giant grabbed it by its tail and pulled it away from Aaron, once again saving him from the jaws of the death. This monster was not like the first one he had saved from Aaron, and the boy heard himself let out a shocked gasp when it whirled on his hulking savior, leaped through the air and collided into him.

The whip flew purposely out of his clawed hand and wrapped around the slick throat. It thrashed above him as it pinned him to the ground, clawing at whatever skin it could reach. Its head bobbed, trying to wiggle from the crushing grip on its neck. A small, square like appendage shot out of its mouth, biting at the air just above his silver mask. After it retracted and detracted several times, Aaron realized that it was not a tongue like he thought it was when he saw it take a small chunk out of the behemoth's chest. It's blood, like the serpent that had him trapped, also had different colored blood and the fluorescent green color almost hurt his eyes.

That was when it hit the boy. It was bleeding! It was killing him!

Even though he knew it was not human, the boy still felt a human eagerness to help— a rapid impulsiveness to save someone in mortal danger. He knew that there was something that he could do to stop this black monster from killing him, even if all he could be was a distraction. Aaron knew that if he didn't at least try and give him the advantage, then he would be joining Abraham on the other side as soon as it was done killing the only obstacle in its way.

It ripped another chunk of flesh from his shoulder, and this time, he heard it roar over the shrill sounds of the creature's frustration that he still could not reach him. That was when Aaron ran for the hatchet.

His feet felt as heavy as boulders as he pumped his arms through the air, running as fast as limbs could towards the campfire. His heart raced with panic as he tried to swallow his fear down his throat. The boy grabbed the small ax from the stump and flew towards the pair still wrestled in a deadly embrace. The monster paid no attention to him as he approached and he raised the hatchet as high as he could over his head and buried it as deep as he could into its skull.

It hissed in agony and threw its skinny arm back, striking Aaron in the stomach and sailing him through the air. Fire mushroomed all over his chest, and he winced in pain as he fought against the barrage of tears threatening to spill. For such a skinny arm, it felt as if he had just been struck by a bull.

His affliction hadn't gone unrewarded, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw the huge humanoid roll the creature on its back— finally granted with the leverage he needed.

The inner mouth shot out again, and this time, he grabbed it and with a couple of tugs, tore it out altogether. It bubbled up acidic blood as he quickly climbed to his feet, held the demon down with a foot and with the other, stomped as hard as it could on the hatchet head sticking out of its slick bulbous head.

With a sickening crunch, the hatchet cut through its skull under the weight of its foot. They both watched as it quivered and died by the time the acid ate through the wood of the handle. He removed his foot from the carcass the same time the wooden handle of the hatchet _'thunked'_ to the ground.

Immediately, a strange cloud of uneasiness hovered in the space above them and replaced the excitement and horror of what the boy had witnessed. Aaron was no stranger to death, and was thankfully satisfied to see the oily monsters dead, but he still could not comprehend anything that had just happed; like he had just awoken from some lucid nightmare.

As the mammoth, who didn't even look at his ghastly weeping wounds on his pectorals, withdrew a cobalt blue liquid in a glass vial and began to walk around the camp. Only adding more to the boy's already daunting mountain of confusion, he watched as he poured the liquid, that rivaled his green blood in luminescence, and watched as the earth swallowed the demons.

Aaron understood that it was acidic as the blood of the creatures, but he what he didn't understand was why he was pouring it on them. The boy was beginning to doubt if he was ever going to comprehend a single thing about the herculean enigma.

After all of the creatures had vanished from existence, the only evidence that they had even been here was Aaron's bruised chest and the green blood dripping down its bare torso, it stalked towards him.

Even the way it walked was mysterious; it didn't saunter towards him with anger, or the desire to kill him, or even indifference. The boy knew he had to be contemplating something because its expressionless mask never left his face.

As it came to a halt right in front of him, Aaron shrunk slightly in his shadow, but still dared to stare him in the eye. It made the clicking noise again and tilted his head at Aaron slightly. The boy still didn't know what that meant, and he wished the goddamn thing would just spit it out already. A little discontented by its lack of explanation, the boy narrowed his eyes in anger at him and asked the only question that came to mind.

"Where's Abraham?" his small voice demanded. In all honesty, he was surprised he was able to utter the words. The creature may not have killed him, but he still was apprehensive towards him. With a single blow, he could end his life if he wanted to and Aaron would never see the it coming.

Again, it stared at him; never uttering a word and never lowering its shield. Instead, the unknown male— at least he guessed it was male— walked towards where he had discarded the demon's appendage. Picking it up, he wandered back towards the boy. The masked being looked at the disgusting inner mouth that hung like a dead trout in his hand, curling his clawed fingers around it — mulling over something— before he looked back at Aaron.

To his astonishment, the creature spoke in the deepest, most garbled baritone voice he had heard. "Keep..."

It tossed the severed limb at the boy, as if rewarding him with a medal. The boy's reflexes kicked up, and without his permission, caught the creature's limb in his hands. It was repulsively slippery and its slick, translucent saliva clung to his hand like glue.

Aaron looked down in disgust at it and noticed that the monster had turned its back and was storming away from him. The 7-year-old bristled with anger and impulsively, jumped to his feet with the limb trying to jump from his hand as he raced after him.

Whipping his hand back and with an angry grunt, he threw the vile gift back — aiming for the back of his head. "I don't want yer goddamn' souvenir!"

As soon as it hit the back of his thick hair, and landed on the ground by his heels, the armored male stopped dead in his tracks. A worrisome expression came over his face, and for a moment, he really regretted what he did. Still, the stubborn boy puffed up his chest as it continued to give him his back.

"What happened to Abraham! I know you gotta know somethin'!" he hollered at him. Aaron felt his eyes prick with tears, and with the back of his dirty coat sleeve, he wiped them away— secretly thankful that it didn't see him crying at the same time.

It said nothing, but it did tip its head slightly over its shoulder to regard him with a side-glance; acknowledging him that he was listening at least, even if his demeanor still seemed unmoved.

"Please..." Aaron croaked out, more tears spilling and this time not caring if it saw. "Help me find him...?"

Its head and shoulders lifted briefly up and he heard it grunt softly— was it scoffing at him? The child's fists tightened— shaking— and felt his nails bury painfully into his skin as his face twisted in anger. The boy stormed over and picked up the Griswold and then tried to storm past him.

"If you ain't gonna help me, then I'll go kill every one of those cocksuckers myself!" Aaron declared, hotly huffing out his words with every step. As the boy attempted to pass by his massive thigh that was bigger than his torso, he squeaked in fright when he felt a clawed hang grab the front of his shirt and lift him.

As it brought him eye level, and dangled him feet off the ground, Aaron felt all of his irate determination flutter out of him faster than a frightened bird. The boy gulped as he hung uncomfortably from the front of his shirt, and the seams of his clothes dig painfully under his arms. He felt its nails scratch across his hand as it pulled the Griswold from his grasp, and tossed it the side into the woods without a glance— his stare persistently on the boy.

"Sire... is _dead_..." It told him with its guttural voice. It stated it matter-of-factly— without remorse— and Aaron felt his heart shatter at the undeniable truth he had been trying to ignore. Hanging limply, and crying, he fell on his bottom when it dropped him to the ground. He sniffled as he stared at the steeled clawed sandals.

"Foolhardy... pup..." it said to him, as it turned its back to him once again. "Still... _somewhat_...strong."

Aaron lifted his head just in time to see his silhouette drowned out in a shimmer of electricity and invisible ripples through the air. He could only make out the outline of his body for a few brief seconds, before he vanished completely from existence.

Leaving the grieving boy alone and in mercy of the dark.

Unbeknownst to both the Yautja and the human child, their meeting was merely a prelude to the calamity that would befall on both of them in another world they had no knowledge of yet.

* * *

 **A/N:** Before you ask, no, the Predator is not Wolf from AVP: R. He's my OC, however, he is an Arbitrator like Wolf is (Predator Police) and I put the whip in there because its one of my favorite weapons they used. I hoped you enjoyed the first chapter, and let me know what you thought about it. It will be a while until Aaron and the Predator meet up again, but I promise there will be MK characters in the first arc of the story. :)

Thanks for reading! :D


	2. Heathens

**A/N:** Thank you for all the amazing reviews I received the last chapter. I apologize for taking so long to update. I had a bad absence from FF for a little bit with the writer's block I got, and I haven't been in the mood to write. :/ Thank you all for being patient with me. This chapter isn't as exciting as the first, but it sets up the story more regarding who some of the players are. Chapter title inspired by twenty-one pilot's song by the same name. Also, I do not own MK, AVP, but I do own my OC's.

 **Westcoast Witchdoctor:** Sonya's role will come later in the story, my friend, but if all goes according to plan, she will appear in the next chapter. Erron and the Predator will have a 'feud' though later on in the story. :) Thanks for the review my friend! :D

 **Guest:** Yes it is. :)

 **storybook thumb:** Thank you so much! *hugs*

 **en-lumine** **:** Lol, technically there was supposed to be a prologue but I decided to combine it in a way and give you something a little bit better. I'm glad to hear that you loved it so, and apologizes about Abraham and yes, this is a different fic, but I'm recycling the same OCs. Don't worry, though, he won't endure the same death as he does in Desperado as he does here. Thanks again for the awesome review, dear! :D

 **Iceangelmkx:** Same OC, but different story. I'm just being lazy :P and I'm glad I was able to scare you, even for a teensy little bit that babeh Aaron wouldn't survive. :D Thanks for the review my friend! :D

 **19871992:** Thank you so much! I'm glad you are loving it so far and thank you for the kind praise! :D

* * *

 **Chapter 2  
** **Heathens**

* * *

 **October 2004  
**

Charles Bishop Weyland wasn't even the least bit surprised that Yutani was calling him. Both of them hardly called the other merely just to check up, or by coincidence. It was almost as if his rival had been informed the moment _he_ had called out the order. The only response he could emanate was a breathy chuckle that left almost inaudibly through his closed lips. _Almost._

His only son, Peter, rose from the black leather chair in front of his father's meticulously organized, dark cherry desk. They had been through this routine before, and neither of them had to address their conflicting viewpoints about the matter. However, as Peter's cobalt eyes glared at the rivets of rain that ran down the window of his father's penthouse window, Charles could feel his son's enmity. Peter ran his palm through his slicked blonde hair and straightened his gray suit jacket so hard that if there had been a speck of dust on it, it would have hastily been blown away by the single tug.

Peter only glanced his way once, the second time the phone rang, and this time the younger of the two men didn't hide what he felt. His angular features, similar in design to his own father's but sharper, twitched with annoyance; the muscles in his cheeks flexing when he ground his teeth together. Although he was silent about it now, his father knew how much he distrusted Yutani, and thought of her and her robotics company as nothing but parasites in the way of the Weyland Industries' progress.

It was not that Charles trusted Yutani more because of his history with her. Their cordial relationship didn't make him naïve; he just simply participated in the adage of 'keeping your enemies close.' He created this business, grew it from nothing, and kept it alive by making the best choices he could. Yutani had done the same, and 'Bishop' knew that she felt the same way in regards to him because not only of their history, but how well each of their companies had done.

They were equal— almost mirror images of each other— and that was concerning to both of them. He would never admit it to Yutani, and perhaps it was just paranoia sprouted from the knowledge that the lung cancer would kill him soon, but Charles was uneasy about Yutani more than she was of him.

A smaller company puffing its chest and foolishly went after Weyland Industries he could bury. However, a company that was just as powerful as his, that was something to worry about.

Yutani and Weyland both knew that sooner or later, one of them would grow stronger than the other. So, in the best interests of their companies, their relationship was civil to a certain degree.

It angered the board, who Charles swore had the same mentality as his son sometimes, but suited Weyland Industries in the end even if it that meant the Yutani Corporation did as well. She had often chuckled in response and said that her board members also felt the same way, even if they didn't even dare to voice it to her. Her board knew what happened when they questioned her. Her sternness could render the most outspoken men mute with just a single look. Yutani was no dictator, though, and her board members could voice their concerns, but it was up to their female CEO whether she saw it as perusable or not.

Weyland on the other hand, earned harsher words about his decisions, but in the end, they had always benefitted the company. In return, he seldom nowadays ever heard any retaliation from the board after each new success. Now that his lung cancer was worsening, he realized that not a single person from the committee said anything. Charles scoffed internally. He didn't need their pity. However, the one person that he could always count on to reprimanded him, he just didn't have the heart to fire.

"I will leave you to pack," was his son's indifferent remark. Weyland gave a single, almost melancholy, nod in response. It was as good as a good-bye he was ever going to get from Peter.

For months now, Weyland had been trying to convince Peter to keep the company's good relations with Yutani, but each time the discussion came up Peter was quick to disregard it. Even if Charles put it in his will doubted Peter would hold true to his word. Their relationship had never been the best even before the negotiations and Charles always blamed himself for it, but despite everything he had faith that Peter would take care of his legacy.

The young man was smarter than he would ever be— he proved that at age 14 when he constructed that synthetic trachea. He was an inventor, a maverick, and would no doubt win a Noble Peace Prize someday. However, Peter knew all of this as well. The younger Weyland never once questioned his self-worth and because of it, Charles knew his vanity would be his downfall. The 24-year-old was hot-headed, unwavering, and too ambitious than what his father thought the company needed. Charles prayed that he realized it was a weakness instead of a strength and changed it for the greater good, or at least hoped he didn't take the company down with him because of his personality follies.

As soon as he heard Peter exit out the front door, Weyland walked from his bed and picked up the telephone that sat on his desk. He did his best to suppress a hoarse cough that surfaced the moment he lifted the receiver, but it was useless. His chest ached, and he shut his eyes as he let out the string of rough and agonizing coughs. Pain coursed through every inch of his body but did not burn as much as his lungs did. After the fit finally settled, and he felt a twinge of embarrassment for letting Yutani hear it - even if she was aware of his current health situation.

"How are you feeling, Charles?"

He cleared his throat and raised his chin with reassurance as if she was in the room with him. "I'm looking forward to better days ahead. At least, that's what my doctors tell me," he lied.

"You have never been a good liar," Yutani commented. The corner of his mouth pulled up into a grimace, he could almost see her bitterly smiling on the other end of the receiver; not with malignant joy learning of his weakening health, but as one friend to another who was lamenting about his condition as well.

"Is there a reason you called?" he asked, changing the subject. He didn't like to spend too much on the subject—especially with other businesspeople.

There was a pause, almost as if she was assessing whether she should come out with it or not. "You are not the only one hunting for _minerals_."

Charles gave a small _'hmph'_ as a response and waited for her to continue. Weyland knew that she would have picked up on the scent seconds after he had, but Yutani and Weyland respected each other enough to humbly submit if one or the other found something first unlike other corporations that fought over claims like children in a sandbox. Still, these _minerals_ were too important to let slip away.

"However, your satellite picked it up first, so I will not impede," Yutani avowed.

"We both know you have already found a way," Weyland stated flatly. "Whether I'll be able to see it in time, or whether I care at the moment is the only reason why you called."

Despite their respect over who found an item of importance first, it still didn't mean that there weren't avenues to exploit. They both had their strengths and weaknesses in their companies and whenever there was a valuable resource the other needed—and quickly— a negotiated fee was always what the two enterprises settled with. This time, he needed Yutani's equipment - and now - and she knew he did. It was not only the cancer that was giving his operation such time restrictions but the other sharks in the water that would catch a smell of the blood trail soon. Their competitors were not as willing to partition.

Any other day, he would have tried to talk her out of it, and reassure that he didn't need her help in this venture since it was such a grandiose prize. Yutani would have respected and backed off if it was anything else, however, Weyland knew her commitment far surpassed his when it came to the Predators.

Besides aliens, there wasn't anyway else to describe the extraterrestrial head hunters they knew nothing about. In fact, the name had been coined by a mercenary who came in contact with them and survived his encounter; the other members of his team weren't so lucky.

In regards to the Predators, both Yutani and Weyland had different goals in mind when it came to what they wanted from their alien visitors, and it was the only subject they butted heads about.

Weyland Industries was primarily interested in research about not only the species themselves, but the metal that was nearly unattainable on Earth. Rarer than osmium and worth more than all the gold in Fort Knox's vault, it was 15 times harder than diamonds, more versatile than steel and unbeknownst except to a few, was the most precious mineral on Earth.

They had named it Trimonite. One of his own scientists named it. Weyland's goal was to have it on the periodic table in every public school by the time they revealed the pyramid. Whether the general public knew about the aliens or not was not really of importance of him, but rather what they could learn from their technology. The pyramid would be a stepping stone into deciphering their customs, rituals, language and most importantly, how to use the Trimonite. He had his doubts that revealing they were not alone in the universe would bring about more good than bad. People panicked in the 1940's when Orson Welles read _War of the Worlds_ over the radio, and he hated imagining the hysteria revealing the existence of a species far more advanced than them, would bring about. As much as he felt guilty withholding the fact there were wolves among them, it was for the best to leave the pyramid's builders and ambiguous as he could. Let people believe there was another part of human history they were just discovering, and let the ones that believed in the alien theory to keep wearing their aluminum hats.

Over the past 20 years, after first learning about the Predators, Weyland Industries had managed to find scraps of the metal scattered across Earth. They were minuscule amounts and Weyland always had the suspicion that it was apart of a ship that exploded into meteorite size pieces to Earth eons ago. While the Trimonite was essential for their robotics division, there was still not enough for them to mass produce and any samples they did collect, was being used and re-used for different synthetic prototypes.

At this point, everything was trial and error with the Trimonite despite that its molecular structure had opened up opportunities for their robotics division. Still, even after all these years, they still knew really nothing about the metal and race of beings that used it. Charles hoped that the pyramid would be his Rosetta Stone to finally understanding it.

Yutani had different plans for the Trimonite and the Predators. Peter had suggested to him, and sometimes he agreed even, that her obsession as something akin to the plot of a bad sci-fi movie. Weyland was aware of the military contracts her company had with the U.S government, and just like the cliché megalomaniac villain of an evil cooperation, she wanted the Trimonite to weaponize it. Unlike Weyland, who saw the exotic metal as the a valuable commodity, his rival company only seemed interested in the next military contract.

Despite how many time Peter tried to put the earworm into his head, Charles knew that deep down that Yutani's goal was to create a deterrent rather than destruction. Although she had respect for the Predators and saw them as godlike, she feared them - probably more than he did.

Charles couldn't blame her; the thought had been at the back of his own mind once or twice, but in his own opinion, he only saw them as tourists. Weyland knew from the videos and first-hand accounts that hunting and death were the only reason why they bothered with Earth. If their otherworldly visitors wanted conquest, they would have invaded their planet centuries ago, and human history would have been vastly different.

Even though she was adamant in her reason, Weyland knew her well enough to know there was an ulterior motive behind her simple explanation that she simply didn't trust them. All she had offered to him each time he debated it to her was the same excuse: that she wanted the Trimonite for weapons for the military.

However, Charles couldn't help but think she was hiding something from him and perhaps, like him, Yutani thought the answer was inside the pyramid as well.

"I know you are having trouble looking for a drilling team on short notice," she suddenly said, pulling him from his thoughts and back to the conversation. Weyland waited for the proposal and the _'but'_ that always came next. "I am willing to assist you with that, but on a few conditions."

"Such as?" Charles already knew what she was going to ask for - he would have done the same.

"A percentage of the Trimonite your team salvages from the pyramid in compensation," Yutani motioned. Her tone darkened, and the strong, unmovable persona she gave over the phone would have scared any other CEO into agreeing with her terms the instant she gave them. He playfully scoffed internally; it wasn't Weyland's first time playing this game.

"Unless _your_ company takes care of the expenses for your drill team, to move them _and_ the equipment to the ship and then to Antarctica, the best I can give you is 20 percent."

Yutani scoffed. "I will pay the for my drill team and whatever price tag they ring up. 45 percent."

"You seem certain that there is Trimonite in the pyramid. How do you know that this is not some sort of lost Atlantis in the ice? Unless you know something that I don't," he countered, his lips almost pulling into a smile.

Weyland did have a point: there was no guarantee that this pyramid was even alien construction - especially after his experts had agreed that the architecture was similar to other cultures. Cambodian, Egyptian and Aztec elements were integrated into the massive multi-chamber structure, but even with the Earth based framework, that should have felt familiar to him, he saw it as anything but. Yutani must have thought the same as him, otherwise she wouldn't have brought up the next subject.

"We can talk about percentages and compensation at another time, Charles," she began. There was a heaviness in her voice that wavered on unease more than it did discontent.

"I am assuming it's because this conversation is not being recorded and your lawyers are not present?" the older businessman grimaced. "Otherwise, we would still be talking about drill teams and Trimonite."

The woman sighed over the phone. "In regards to the pyramid and just how little we know about… _them,_ I would like to propose to you my OWLF team to you on the excursion."

Weyland scoffed. "Now you are being nosey. I can assemble my own team."

"Charles, I am not offering my team to spy on your operation," Yutani bit back. "You have no time and they are the best you will find on such short notice. Considering _whose_ pyramid you are venturing into, there is no other task force in the world more capable than they are."

"I have my own connections as well," Weyland bit back, trying to stubbornly end the discussion. "I appreciate your concern, but I have this covered."

Weyland listened to her sigh on the other line. Rarely did she ever walk the tightrope between friendship and business. Yutani wasn't exactly a sentimental woman, and loneliness was usually her most predominant lover that visited her, but when it came to Charles Bishop Weyland, she allowed herself to show some vulnerability. As far as he knew, he was the only one she ever did that with and it was an ironic comedy considering that they were supposed to be rivals.

"I must ask you why you intend to oversee this operation yourself," she solemnly relented. She paused, and asked bluntly: "Has waiting and delaying the cancer made you impatient?"

He couldn't help but take slight offense to that, but he had no strength for a heated response nor the patience. Charles knew better as well that her candidness was just a masquerade for her concern for him. They both had a clear premonition that even if they didn't encounter their intergalactic friends in the pyramid, that the trip itself would be strenuous on him. Most undoubtedly his last. With that in mind, there was also no way he could stay behind and watch everything through video and wait on progress reports over the phone. Between his robotics, satellites and nanotechnology, nothing seemed as grandiose enough for him to leave behind as his final legacy—his greatest accomplishment that he would be remembered for. The pyramid, with its exotic culture, minerals and possibly being the discovery of the 21st century, was his last chance to leave behind his mark in history. It was his opportunity to climb Everest first, then he would be the carrying the flag to the top.

"It's not suicide," he affirmed. "I plan on coming back."

"And if you don't?" she asked. Her voice heavy with pensive thought.

He gave a bitter smile before he responded: "Well, at least nobody remembers the guy that comes in second."

There was a soft chuckle on her end of the receiver. "I hope you are right. Goodbye Charles."

Weyland hung up the phone before she did. The morose last words picked at him like crows at stalks of corn and deflated his already gloomy mood even more. He probably should have told her goodbye - as well as Peter - but he stubbornly refused to let himself believe that he would die on this trip, even though nobody, including himself, thought the odds were in his favor.

Another hoarse fit of coughs left him and this time, he barked them out, it left his muscles aching not only in his chest but everywhere else. Reaching for the plastic mask, he feed himself air until they surpassed. The pain still lingered in his lungs, as well as every other muscle fiber in his body. Charles despised the weakness, the medicine, his tired achy body. He hated all the symptoms the reminded him his clock was ticking down. Still, like almost everything, he fueled that hatred and used it to power his determination to get to the pyramid first.

Weyland would make sure this discovery out-shadowed his death.

It would be the greatest accomplishment he could ask for if everything went right.

He frowned as he wondered how lucky he might be, and what sacrifices he had to make to ensure that.

Weyland reached for the manila envelope containing the documents that had arrived before Peter's departure. One by one he scanned the profiles of each mercenary to provide security on the expedition.

They were good. Perhaps too good and it immediately roused suspicion. Charles had a theory, and maybe it was just paranoia, but the team's skill and its coincidental availability that favored his rushed schedule. A group of mercenaries this good didn't have dry bank accounts— they were always working –and because Weyland hadn't told them anything about the true nature of the pyramid, he wondered why they were eager to join.

He shook his head. Maybe it was a just curiosity for the unknown, a lust for adventure and new scenery, or just because a job was a job. It could have all been in his head as well, but Yutani's offer for her government taskforce team to lend a hand, buzzed in his head—refusing to leave him alone. Regardless, and feeling as if it was against his will, there was no time to do the background check he would have preferred. With no time to spare, he took the gamble, picked up the phone and made the call.

* * *

 **Lho La Icefall, Nepal**  
 **October 2004**

"My name is Maxwell Stafford. I represent Weyland Industries."

It wasn't the crisp, cold wind on his face that made him grimace, but what he had just said. Stafford was thankful that Alexa Woods hadn't reached the top to see it. Perhaps, even without knowing him, she would have been able to see the lie he had been forced to repeat over and over. Hopefully, after this final task, he would never have to utter it again.

Yes, he represented Weyland Industries, but that was not the only company he was affiliated with.

It hadn't been an easy task for Yutani to bypass all of Weyland's background checks on Stafford and his team but after the taxing and intricate work that had been done. Every member of his OWLF team were now under the personas of mercenaries hired by Weyland Industries for the expedition to Bouvetøya Island. Despite that Stafford was confident that Yutani's military connections helped deceive the other company, he knew not to underestimate Charles Bishop Weyland— no matter how frail his condition. Although Stone had told him that the chances were slim of being discovered, Stafford still found himself questioning if Weyland would figure it out or not.

Every time he had a conversation with the older man, it made the ex-British Special Forces Captain wonder if he was playing a poker game with him. If Weyland was anything like Yutani, which he started to suspect that he was, he knew that Weyland would have been meticulous about who he hired despite his time constraints. Ever since they did get the job, Max had always noticed something suspicious in his old blue eyes. As if each time he looked at him, he was swallowing a bitter pill. They were mercenaries, the best of the best and they didn't need fake profiles to prove it, but Stafford could see past Weyland's guard.

Yutani had told Stafford how Weyland had rejected the idea, but maybe he had a change of heart about the OWLF team after all, and saw their importance even if they accepted paychecks from Yutani in the end. It was still Weyland's prize to claim, and perhaps his rush to get to the Antarctica island had allowed them to slip through the cracks just this once.

 _"The best is all I'll take."_ was what Charles had told him when Stafford asked what he wanted out of them. The OWLF leader hadn't failed to notice the half-smile the flickered briefly across his pale face when he had said that.

They both knew who they were, but Weyland was a slave to time and burdened with the choice he had made; there was no resetting the clock. The billionaire had to trust them, whatever he thought their true motives were. Maxwell wished he could be honest with him. Yutani had given them a list of simple commands, but none as important making sure that they protected Weyland— since that was what they were hired for to being with.

They were there to observe, protect and collect as much data on the pyramid as they could sneak out. If Weyland was correct, and the pyramid could help provide insight on the alien culture, then it would propel R and D's development and give her military investors weaponry to drool over. Unlike Weyland Industries, Yutani Robotics had already cracked the code on how to use the Trimonite. They had the decoder for some time now, and from what he had heard on the grapevine, was discovered 20 years ago in the Pacific Ocean near New Zealand.

While on a small percentage of the alien technology was salvable, the ship's metal was what propelled Yutani years ahead of the competition. Weyland had pieces; bits of broken debris from the ship. While Weyland was collecting dust, Yutani already had the nugget of gold they needed.

Mostly, Stafford liked to believe that the reason for the OWLF's presence on the expedition was to look out for its leader, and learning more about the Predators was an excuse but still an objective.

Maxwell could see what Yutani saw in him and despite that he was nothing more than a spy—an enemy to Bishop's company— the captain still wished to see Weyland's dream realized. There was almost a childlike sense of wonder whenever he spoke to him about the pyramid; an explorer's zeal that he could see despite the stern, tired persona he displayed constantly. What he felt, Stafford measured up as being nothing but pity. There was a tragic element to his excitement— because the obvious truth that Charles could never shake off his shoulders, regardless of how he tried to ignore it, was that he was a dead man on borrowed time.

It made Stafford want Charles to make it to the pyramid as much as he did. The sincere thought made it only easier for him to work and move forward at the pace that Weyland had set. It also helped the CEO accept him as a valuable asset that he couldn't afford to replace at the moment.

Stafford couldn't help but wonder how long Charle's indifference would last. Until they reached the pyramid? Until he had enough proof to sue? He frowned at the latter; the former solider had a feeling that was the ace up his sleeve, and there were already people investigating into as he froze his ass off on the mountain. At this point, he doubted that he had as much patience for that legal bullshit as much as Maxwell did, but what about when they were done?

However, who knew if they would even be alive for all that, anyway?

His brown eyes immediately looked up at the cloudless sky above him on the glacier. Stafford cynically lifted the corner of his mouth to the side as he suspiciously scanned the azure ceiling above him, wondering what _they_ were doing at the moment.

Were they on their way?

Were they already here?

Were they watching him now?

Did they know as much as he did about Weyland's expedition?

After 10 years of hunting the hunters, Stafford knew not to misjudge them. Video footage, pictures, first-hand witness accounts, and even finding the skinned bodies were as close as the OWLF team had gotten in years since 97'. Stafford sincerely hoped they would be no-shows at the pyramid. It had only taken 1 Predator to kill a team of highly skilled mercenaries, and there was only so much protection he could provide to civilians.

Then again, perhaps they wouldn't show up at all. Maxwell would have given the thought permission to settle him, but there was one thing that kept him from doing so.

The heat bloom.

It had all the warning signs of a trap, and he could not shake the feeling no matter how hard he tried. His team thought so as well, even if they didn't voice it. Most of them were able to dismiss it, and focus on the mission; he thought that was unwise on his team's part. Stafford remembered Verheiden had scoffed and said: _"That's what the guns are for."_

Verheiden had never seen one of them face to face, in fact only Stone and himself had, and ironically the reason they survived was because they _didn't_ have any guns. The British mercenary frowned heavily at the memory and even high on the top of the frozen waterfall, he could still feel the heat of the Costa Rican jungle on him from that day.

He tugged at the lip of his navy blue turtleneck, the heavy wool suddenly constricting his air flow. It had not been too long ago since he had felt hot, reptilian fingers around his throat in the same spot as the blue fabric.

"Let me guess he's suing us again?" Woods asked sarcastically over the phone, pulling him from the memory.

The corner of his mouth picked up in an unenthusiastic smile to her joke. "You misunderstand," Stafford replied, shaking his head and resuming his façade.

Despite his reservations and his history with the intergalactic head-hunters, there was no way to stop the train that was in motion. All he could do was hope there wasn't anything waiting for them at the final destination, and if there was, make sure he kept his gun on him this time.

* * *

 **December 25, 2004**

 _Killed when the island collapsed._ That was the story everyone knew. It had been the only story anyone would accept and never question.

 _"Your father was a brave man."_ That had been Alexandra Woods' words to him. Peter didn't mourn his father, though; he only mourned what he failed to retrieve.

The last Weyland swirled the whiskey and watched as the ice clanked against the walls of the glass. Downing the las bit of it, he angrily let the cup slid against the smooth surface of the pristine glass desk of his office. It squealed for a moment before it came to halt against the bulky satellite phone only his personal assistant knew he had.

Pushing himself out of his chair, he walked over the window and stared outside. Christmas was coming to a close as the last amber lights burned across the horizon. Peter stayed at the window until the sun dipped under and only the artificial lights coming from the city across the bay pinpricked the dark curtain of night. His fist struck the window above his head in frustration, rattling the window pane slightly and sending small tremors against the surface of his forehead. He could see his blue eyes darken at his reflection in the window as if it were another entity scorning him.

Even if the space bastards did show up, they were supposed to kill everyone and then leave—not bury the whole island into the sea! Now, there was nothing left to salvage!

Panning towards the satellite phone that sat on his desk, the device itself a vulgarity amongst the taintless state of the art technology on his desk, and glared in resentment towards the inanimate object. Peter was supposed to of made the phone call months ago, but _they_ had been the ones to call him instead.

 _"So, it's lost then, eh?"_ The younger Weyland could still hear the man's sardonic, dark chuckle. _"Still better your daddy than us buried under the snow."_

Bitterly, he exhaled out his nose and turned away from the desk. Still, as if the phone was a vessel for the person who gave it to him, he could still feel it behind him. The fist above his head tightened, and he felt pain in his palm from his own fingernails cutting into his flesh.

It was not supposed to be this way! For the sake of his own life, and everything he had hoped to achieve, he was not supposed to lose the Trimonite inside the pyramid! Minimally, it was to be his ticket to the lifeboat in part of paving the road towards progress.

His father had always thought so small; always caring about what pertained to him on this miserable blue ball they lived on. There had never been any doubt in Peter's mind that his father was also approached by them, but had refused. Luckily, Peter wasn't so small-minded.

While Charles Weyland dreamed of building a lunar base in the Sea of Tranquility, Peter's goals reached farther than the moon. It was the question that drove science and religion, that plagued almost everybody on the planet at one time or another, and had always been his obsession to answer.

Where did they come from and how had humanity come to be?

Little had he realized not too long ago, his planet wasn't the only one trying to solve that enigma. The Predators were only a small percentage inside the population that included realms and other monsters. There were more worlds among them, separated by science that Peter still had no luck at understanding—and he refused to use the word 'magic' as a viable explanation.

What surprised him the most about learning of these other realms existence, was they were currently at war— and Earth was losing. They were being conquered by a chaotic, and more powerful world and only a handful of people—including himself—knew about it. Peter had a hard time believing it until he saw the realm—Outworld—with his own eyes. Then, there was no choice but to join. Peter Weyland refused to lose, even if it meant making deals with devils. There was only one thing he had to do in return for safe passage.

Help create the Cyber Lin Kuei.

At first, he thought the task would be an easy—robotics was what he excelled best at— but after meeting with Grandmaster Oniro and the Black Dragon leader, Kano, about what their vision was, he understood how daunting it would truly be.

Although he had some experience with combing technology with organic materials, even he would be foolish if he didn't admit that this cyborg project didn't have its difficulties. The challenge did not sway him away, though—he welcomed it. There was no progress if he was not challenged.

Unbeknownst to his father, he had been answering the challenge for 2 years now. The easiest task had been creating the dummy company, Borgia Industries that was his workshop for the Cyber Initiative. Borgia went under the disguise of a weapon's manufactory in the Xicheng District of Beijing, and so far nobody was the wiser. The only difficulty had been making sure any bread crumbs leading to Weyland Industries were found and destroyed—especially when they were dealing with the Black Dragon of all criminal organizations. However, after the dust settled, he wouldn't have to worry about Borgia being his creation, but for now, it was the best safeguard.

The Black Dragon were actually more useful than Peter had thought they would be. Kano and his men did the dirty work: sabotaging Yutani when they could, stealing scraps of Trimonite and the alien weaponry from their facilities, and making sure the Borgia factory was staffed with discrete workers and scientists. Still, they had hit a blockade in their plans. Although they had Trimonite, Peter had the same problem as his father had: they had it, but had no idea how to use it.

The 24-year-old had a feeling that Yutani already knew how to, but so far every attempt to unveil if she did or not, ended up disastrous. Her security measures were simply better with Special Forces as one of her best clients.

It wasn't that Peter actually needed her research, he just wanted to make sure that she couldn't do anything with it. Weyland, or rather, Borgia Industries, would eventually decode the secret to the elusive mineral, and get underway. Trimonite was the best material in their arsenal, and after countless tests, nothing did as well with organic tissue than it did. It was the pioneer material into the world of biomechatronics and what Weyland Industries would soon be known for on top of satellite technology.

Peter looked out the window, his eyes gliding over the surface of the buildings in the obsidian distance. It was strange to know when the end was coming, and for a moment, envied the simple man's ignorance— for a moment. The younger Weyland was not a simple man and even in his heart before he knew about Armageddon on their doorstep, did not want to share Trimonite with blue-collar men with fleeting lives and no ambition for greatness.

There was a soft knock at the door before he heard the light click of the knob turn. Peter's stern gaze left the city behind and instead went towards the translucent image of his female secretary in the window. Younger than him by only a year, but a child compared to his own intelligence, she walked across the wood floor of his office; black heels clacking across the floor with reluctant rhythm.

His blonde eyebrows rose sharply at her without bothering to turn around — making her fully aware that Peter knew she was trying to gauge his expression by spying on his reflection in the window. The slender woman approached with more confidence that he saw merely as a small show of defiance. He snorted lightly at her demeanor. Just because they fucked once, and she knew about the _satellite phone_ , didn't make them equals no matter how useful she was. He sensed her own agenda— she stunk of it— and figured she was only as loyal in hopes of escaping the sinking ship with him.

 _Such a naïve thought_ , he mused to himself. "What is it, Miss Logan?"

The corner of Donna Logan's face twitched at his acid tone, and she strolled over to him with her hands clasped behind her back. Peter watched her in the window's reflection as she sat on the end of his desk, smoothed the top of her gray skirt with her hand and looked at the satellite phone by her thigh with a frown. An envelope was in her soft grip, and he looked at it before back to her.

There were 5 years left now, and he could feel his ticket start to disintegrate into ashes every time he had to look at the phone, and in turn, washed away her hopes as well. This time, Donna dawned a different expression. Her rose colored lips curved up into a grin as she tucked a strand of dark hair that had fallen from her bun behind her ear.

"This came for you today, Mr. Weyland," Logan began.

"And?" he barked, his eyes still scrutinizing her reflection.

"It's an address and also ended up in _my_ mailbox, but I believe it was always intended for you, sir," she answered. Her brown eyes twinkled as if she was laughing at him and Peter immediately hated it. Withdrawing himself from the window, he walked over to her. Donna was looking down at the opened envelope until he reached his desk. Her eyes shot up at him before she tossed the paper on his desk. Picking herself up from the glass table, she walked towards the door.

"Your appointments are covered for the next few days with a suitable alibi until you get back," Donna smirked. "Or however long you need to take. Your plane is fueled and ready."

Logan glided away— strutting like a peacock—as if the envelope she had given to him was the cure for cancer. Peter glowered in annoyance at her stupidity; just because it was in her mail slot, didn't make her any more important than what she was. Logan was a pawn that thought herself as a rook on the chessboard when she was lucky to even to be a part of the game.

"Bring back a souvenir," the secretary called to him, her voice a snobbish sing-song tune that bounced off the walls. The door closed behind her, and he reached for the letter.

 _We got it and more._

 _Get to the island._

9 words out of context that would have been a riddle to anyone reading, filled Weyland with anticipation. The 24-year old CEO brought the knuckle of his index finger to his lips when he read over and over the only part of the message that puzzled him.

 _We got it and more._

Did that mean? Did they get the ship and _him_?

Weyland grabbed his black jacket of his suit from the oil-colored leather chair and headed for the door. Crumbling the paper and throwing it into the fireplace, he exited the door and passed by Donna who chicken-pecked at her keyboard with her manicured nails. Without even looking up from her work on the computer screen, she wished him luck, as he headed for the elevator.

* * *

 **Lost Sea**  
 **Earthrealm**

Peter Weyland's hands gripped the rail of the Chinese Junk ship and let himself retch over the side. The young businessman had never been able to control his sea-sickness, no matter how much Dramamine he took. He wished that his pilot could fly to the damn island, instead of having him take the rest of the journey on the Outworlder's ship, especially given the company he was forced to share it with. However, Shang Tsung insisted that he arrived in the same manner, and for the most part, Weyland understood his need for secrecy; it was no different than having a black bag over his head.

He felt a strong hand slap the back of his shoulder blades and knocked the wind out of him with every pat.

"Aw, don't look so down, " a thick accented voice crooned sarcastically. "Nothin' wrong with chummin'. Fishys appreciate it, that's for sure."

The leader of the Black Dragon chuckled at his own joke as he came to stand next to him. Weyland straightened his posture and fixed his red tie. The CEO looked over in the Australian's direction and glided his eyes over him with a stoic expression. Kano never missed an opportunity to goad him when he could, and each attempt was as exasperating as the next. Between the both of them, they thought of one another as inferior. Kano saw him as nothing more than a pretty boy with daddy's money, and Peter saw him as a moronic pirate. Both men knew that there was a reason why they had caught Shang Tsung's eye, and while Peter didn't need to partake in something as childish as berating, could see Kano resented him. The mercenary had every right to, after all, Weyland was the one with the better resources.

"Did Tsung happen to mention anything about why he called us?" Peter asked.

Kano blinked at him before he lifted the side of his mouth into a smirk. "What? Shang didn't tell ya?"

"And he told _you_?" The CEO shot back with a doubtful tone.

A small scoff escaped from Kano before he glowered. "Nah. Didn't say either. He's gotta thing for surprises, ya know? I hope it's something special. Maybe the pony your daddy never bought you for your 12th birthday."

Ignoring him, Peter sneered: "Well, it is obviously Trimonite if _I_ am being called down. What about you, though? I don't see why you're needed."

"I'm more important than you think I am, mate," Kano snapped, both of his eyes narrowing at him like a hawk. "And I much more useful than some rich little tosser."

"Yes," Peter smiled pompously. "Every operation needs _expendable_ grunts. Especially ones that are so easily manipulated by something as simple as money."

"I'd watch my back if I were you—"

"Or what?" Peter interrupted. "You'll put a knife in it? How cliché."

The smuggler pulled out one of the large knives that he kept close by and with a swift flick of his wrist, twirled it until the blade came up to his neck which he used as a makeshift barber's razor.

"Nah. Wouldn't waste any of _my_ knives on you, but I'm known for my creativity," the cartel leader warned darkly. The threat rolled off of Peter like water and instead turned his attention back to the sea. Thank God he could already see the outline of the island in the distance. Kano saw it as well and took that as his cue to leave, curling his lip at him as he retreated with a parting remark.

"Wonder if there's anythin' to eat around here," Kano looked at him intentionally. "Or if it already went over the side."

* * *

 **Shang Tsung's Island**  
 **Unknown Location**

Weyland had always found it ironic, and somewhat humorous, how dungeons, no matter what realm they were in, usually followed the same architectural design: dark, decrepit, offensive to the nose, and topped off with just a dash of hopelessness to complete the ambiance. Shang Tsung's dungeon on the island was no different, and as Peter's dark leather shoes splashed in the puddles of dirty water— he hoped it was water— he hoped that this was a quick appointment and worth his time.

The old, withered sorcerer turned his milky eye over his shoulder and looked at the young businessman. "You seem uncomfortable in these surroundings, Mr. Weyland."

Peter heard Kano snort behind him in disgust. The CEO raised a single arrogant eyebrow at the weapon's dealer before turning back to Tsung. "Not at all."

"That is good," Shang Tsung commented, a grin forming on his wrinkled face. "Because I feel you will be spending a lot of your time here. I would hate to see my business partners unable to get comfortable with their surroundings."

Weyland bridged his eyebrows at the sorcerer's back at the cryptic remark. He had always disliked the way the older man seemed to talk down to him, as if he was a child. Granted, he was new to the realm war, but in no way did he enjoy being treated like an ignorant tourist.

"Is there a reason you have brought me here, or is it just to waste my time with games?"

The red robed elder chuckled at his heated inquiry, causing Weyland's chest to tighten with anger before he answered: "On the contrary, I have _several_ reasons, and neither of them are as _wasteful_ as you think they may be."

Peter sneered. "We'll see."

Shang didn't say anything, but even with his back turned to him, Peter knew he had one of his grins on his face. Weyland decided to bite his lip for the rest of the voyage through the humid, stone prison. As they reached the lowest level of the dungeon, passing by skeletons cemented in the walls as if used for mortar for the stones, the young man could already hear soft wailing coming from the cells. As they passed by the dimly lit cells, Peter couldn't help but pinch his nose as he was hint with the foulest aroma of feces, urine, and body odor hit him. The torches on the wall provided little insight the cell occupants, and at first, Peter thought they were just skeletons until he saw the leathery skin and rags that hung off them.

Eventually, they rounded a corner and at the end of the hall, two guardsmen with the strange chessboard colored masks bowed their head and opened the door for their master and his guests.

When they entered the chamber, Peter was already surprised to see that it was occupied.

With both wrists chained to the wall by manacles, the alien head-hunter raised its tired head at its new visitors. The yellow eyes settled in the deep pocketed eye-sockets glared venomously as soon as he— Weyland assumed it was a male— saw Shang Tsung amongst them. It only seemed to focus on Shang for a moment; its mandibles flexing apart before closing slowly as if it was displaying an act of defiance. Unable to stand with its ankles also shackled to the floor by irons, Peter noticed that the large, black dreadlocks that imitated hair, seemed to grow bigger. They noticeably spread farther apart, giving him the illusion of a mane; the alien certainly reminded him of a caged lion ready to sink its teeth into its kidnappers. The small dark spines above the brow bone narrowed down at them— glaring— as if waiting for them to speak.

It was the first time Weyland had seen one of them in the flesh and even though it was secured to the cell's wall, he still felt completely unsafe. It was badly hurt, no doubt from whatever fight had ended up with him as a prisoner. The color of the fluorescent blood almost hurt his eyes looking at it, but the strange green color that seeped angrily from the wounds on its crested head and muscled legs, arms and torso was compelling. It was also the first time he had seen one of these creatures without its mask, and he wished that Shang would have left it on. The crab-like lower mandibles spread apart as its small eyes towards the human. It lowered its head at the younger man, as if it could sense his fear, and lifted on of its top mandibles at him while the other ones remained stationary. Funny, Peter could have sworn it was sneering at him.

Under the blood, in the middle of the beige forehead, Weyland thought he caught the sight of something. Scars of lines that while not connected, resembled a pitchfork with the prongs spread wider apart…

The Predator seemed to notice he was staring at it, and raised its chin up at him; as if displaying something of pride. Although the creature was no doubt a brute, Peter couldn't help but sense the incredible intelligence it seemed to have. For a moment, it made him consider it as something human and remarkable, instead of a savage beast.

The memory of his father sprang up and the knowledge that his death was the result of an encounter with one of these hunters. His curiosity was replaced with hatred and Peter caught himself narrowing his eyes at it. He may not have loved his father the way most son's were supposed to, but he still loved him.

"Our friend here made the mistake of trespassing," Shang Tsung explained. The curve of a smile lifted at the corner of his mouth, and added: "It seemed we had bait all this time without knowing about it."

Kano chuckled as if laughing at the Predator's gullibility. "Who was he huntin'?

"Prince Goro," Shang answered.

Kano barked out a laugh, slapped his knee and looked at the alien. "What's wrong, chump? The big four-arm lug too much for you to handle, eh?"

The Australian continued laughing, while Weyland and Shang Tsung didn't say anything, and instead stared at the hunter. Of course, the young man knew about the Shokan and was thankful he never had the opportunity to meet him, but from the rumors he had heard about the Mortal Kombat champion, he would have to say the Predator got off easy. The fierce, golden eyes darted to Weyland for the moment, looking at him with a strange acuteness that filled the CEO with even greater distrust. It was if it knew _exactly_ what they were saying.

"Is that the only reason you called us here?" Weyland questioned the sorcerer, his eyes never leaving the muscular reptilian bipod.

"No, not the only reason, Mr. Weyland," Tsung informed. The older man placed his hands behind his back as he walked towards the injured alien. Its talon-clawed hands curled into fists as it rattled a clicking sound at him as if a warning to step away from him.

The sorcerer produced a toothy grin as he looked at both Kano and Weyland. "We have also located the ship it used to get here. With its ship, I believe you now have plenty of the materials you need to start building the Cyber Lin Kuei."

Although Weyland was ecstatic to hear the news that they also had the Predator's ship, the entirety of the craft no doubt built with only Trimonite, he still doubted that acquiring it was as easy as it seemed. There was something completely wrong with the situation, as if it was not Shang Tsung's plan, but the hunter's plan all along. However, he seemed to be the only one that had that suspicion, and he chose not to voice it. Whatever its plan really was, it would not complete it stuck in Tsung's prison and from what the enchanter boasted, nobody ever left without his island without his say so.

* * *

 **A/N:** So, while I was re-watching AVP for research for this story, I never really understood why Stafford and his mercenaries brought guns on a research expedition, other than they were mercenaries. That was when the idea of making them an OWLF team (Other World Lifeforms Taskforce) seemed doable. The OWLF team idea was taken from Predator 2 and were the team of government mercenaries that were hunting the City Predator in 1997 in the movie.

This was my first time writing Shang, so I hope I did ok with him. Same goes with Kano, haven't written him for awhile. This chapter takes place before the MK reboot (2009), and there will also be sprinkled elements of Legacy in the next chapter.

Having Yutani be tied with the military was from AVP: R. She had the brief cameo at the end when Colonel Stevens, who I believe is SF, finds and gives her the Predator's plasma canon they find in Gunnison in 2007 (but that happen later). I wanted to give her more to do in this story since her small moment intrigued me, and hopefully, I was able to depict the character in a way that is believable.

Peter Weyland, although in the Prometheus timeline where Charles doesn't exist, I took liberties with and made him Charle's son.

Trimonite is a taken from Tim Lebbon's AVP novels.

So with those little tidbits in mind, hopefully, its kind of clear where this story will be going with just enough ambiguousness to keep it exciting. :D And yes, that Predator that was captured was the same one from chapter 1. You'll be seeing him a lot in the story.

Hope you enjoyed the second chapter, leave me a comment to tell me thoughts, thank you all for reading and as always, see you next chapter. :D


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